


The Elwood City Horrors

by Jesus_Fuentes



Category: Arthur (Cartoon)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27863558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jesus_Fuentes/pseuds/Jesus_Fuentes
Summary: What happens when an unknown horror takes hold of Elwood City, and the friends are forced to deal with a gruesome and unforgiving new reality. A series of timeline hopping vignettes unfold to reveal the truth... Multiple POV.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	The Elwood City Horrors

The Elwood City Horrors

“Better Down Below”

Francine awoke that crisp fall morning with the taste of blood in her mouth, and a lump of dread in her throat. The autumn sun was pouring through her curtainless windows, illuminating the dirt and filth she had tracked into her room last night. “Oh god,” she muttered, as she pulled back her blankets to review her just as sullied clothes. She changed quickly, leaving her torn jeans and sweater in a pile on the floor before reaching for the hand labelled jar of sickly-smelling cream her father had left on the nightstand, gingerly smearing some on the gash across her forehead, and the bruises on her side.

* * *

The kitchen table was strewn with mechanical mathoms, lengths of pipe and wire, and jam jars full of nails and springs that danced and jiggled with delight as Oliver struggled to bore holes in a wooden stock.

“You came in past curfew,” he said without looking up, biting his tongue as a jar scattered to the floor.

“I know.” Francine wandered over to her mother and the pot she was tending, as Catherine roused from the couch to gather bowls.

“I'm afraid it’s sorghum again,” Laverne said more to herself than anyone else as she carried the pot to the table. Brushing past Francine with a sense of cold reluctance.

In silence the family cleared away the clutter and took turns filling their bowls. Some time after, as the sound of scraping spoons began to rise in the room, Oliver spoke again.

“You know what that means, right Franky?”

His tone was more gentle this time, as if trying to lead a forgetful child to the obvious conclusion they had missed.

“ _Yes,_ I know what it means!”

She said it with more force than required. A silent anger had been building in her throat since she woke up, an anger at what she knew was about to happen. Her father would raise a hand to his brow and let out a sigh, before telling her what she already knew.

“It means no more runs, no more bringing supplies to George, and no more getting away from this miserable _fucking_ place!”

She slammed down her bowl with such force that the side cracked and fell away from her hands; for a second, her eyes filled with tears as she feebly tried to push them back together.

“I’m sorry mom. I know these were your favourite.”

Laverne stuttered as she tried to respond, but before she could, Oliver jumped to his feet, knocking his chair out from behind him.

“You broke the rules Francine, we made a deal and you broke it, not six months in and you broke it! You think this is a game? You think I like the idea of leaving George alone? Or sending Cathy-”

“I don’t _care_!”

Francine screamed as she stepped backwards toward the hallway, the lump in her throat pulsing with pain as the gash on her head pumped a new trickle of blood down her face.

“At least I’m willing to risk something to save someone I care about! If it were up to you, we would never leave the building and Buster would be dead!”

“Buster?”

Her father’s face twisted from a barely controlled anger to profound confusion and then back again in a heart beat.

“You went to find _Buster!?_ ” he roared, his face turning red as his fingernails picked at cracks in the table top.

“I bet you don’t even care what happened to him,” she whispered, before turning on her heel and running to her room.

* * *

Francine began stuffing clothes and food into an old backpack she’d ripped from beneath her bed; she knew she might have ten minutes before her mother had calmed her dad down enough to let him come talk to her. She wished she hadn't left her good backpack, the one filled with everything she would have needed, by the door when she came in last night. But it was too late to worry about it now.

She was throwing on her second best coat and her old too-broken-in Keds when she remembered her backpack wasn't the only thing she’d left by the door.

“No,nonononononononon-”

She muttered as she tossed back her sheets and opened drawers on the nightstand, terror tearing at the back of her mind as she raced around the room. Her knife and her bat were nowhere to be found, but more importantly, neither was her gun. Now, calling it a gun might have been overkill. It was a two-shot flare pistol she had bought just before a sailing trip with Muffy the summer before, mostly out of an irrational fear that the elderly ship captain the Crosswires employed would die at sea. But nonetheless it was better than nothing. And now that it was gone she was at a loss.

Doubling back across the room, she pulled a dusty box from a high shelf in her closet, and in her haste it spilled onto the ground. As soon as she saw the ornately carved handle of the tool, she shoved it into her pants pocket, then grabbed a small hammer and bag of nails from beside the window. It was fate that Catherine hadn't gotten around to boarding it up yet.

She knew there was no way she could make it out the front door, and the window that led to the fire escape was twice boarded and sealed. So she decided to skirt the ledge from her window to the outside of the escape was the only choice she had. As she slid the pane against its rusty track with nervous care, she saw the scrawl of her father’s writing on the ointment jar, reflected in the glass from where she’d left it by her bed. She stared for a long moment before stuffing it into her pack, and slipping out into the morning sun.

* * *

Francine didn't have to think twice about where she was headed. Not only did her parents not know where George’s hideout was, but Francine herself wasn't always entirely sure. George always seemed to appear when she was getting close, and never lingered long at the trap-door that led into his abode. He’d said the idea came from a short story he read in school, _The Finnegan_. “In again, out again, Finnegan!” He had laughed to himself when he showed her his plans for it.

“A clubhouse so secret, even its members cant find it!”

As much as it had been annoying to everyone in the beginning, it was a godsend now.

She was a few paces past an old oak she used as a landmark in the woods, when she came up from her thoughts; taking a quick look around she mumbled to herself.

“Left at the oaky is do-kay? Or was it left at the oaky is no-kay?”

Just when she had decided on the left, she heard a rustle of leaves.

“I don’t know why you insist on rhyming your directions. ‘Right at the oak’ just seems so much easier to remember!” George was chuckling to himself as he slipped out from behind a thick maple and gestured her over, already walking in the right direction.

“It’s confusing, okay?” she retorted as she jogged after him, re-shouldering her pack when she caught up.

“I wasn't expecting you today,” he continued. “Doesn't your dad like to space out your runs? Stay off routine so you don’t get followed?”

“I didn't make it home on time last night.” She swallowed. “We ran into some issues...”

At this George turned around and finally took notice of the state of her.

“Oh _, Francine_!” A shroud of concern passed over his face as he took her hand. “Lets get you inside.”

Before she knew it, he had reached down and found an edge where there shouldn’t have been one, lifting a perfect circle of forest floor to a set of wooden stairs leading down.

* * *

George’s hideout was what every other basement or dug-out hole in the ground failed to be in Francine's opinion: homely and inviting. It was mostly one room, chiefly wood, and filled with work tables, half finished projects, and found furniture. George deposited her on an under-stuffed chair and went about putting a pot on to boil.

“What happened last night?” Francine was taking off her pack and jacket as he set up a three-legged stool across from her and put a small medical kit on an end table.

“We would have come to get you, but we thought it was too risky. We didn't have time, and you know they come out to the woods at-”

He put up his hands.

“I know. They were here last night, you don’t have to explain. Just tell me what happened to you.”

“We got Buster.” She let out a smile as she said it, and George got up to place cheese cloth in the pot and scrub his hands.

“I didn't think it would be so soon. Go on.” He prompted.

“Well, after I made my run here in the morning,” she continued, “I went to Bitzi’s house. She’d been watching the high-school, trying to figure out where they were taking the people they kidnapped-”

“Buster wasn't kidnapped, Fran...” George shook his head as he brought the cloths to the table, and began to clean the wounds on her face.

“ _Whatever,_ George.” She pushed his hands aside briskly, causing him to drop one of them and frown.

“We both know Buster would _never_ have gone in there if his head was on straight. Do you wanna hear what happened or not?”

“Please,” he reassured. “Just let me clean you up.”

Francine settled back into the chair and continued with a sigh.

“She got one of them. She wasn’t careful enough and they saw her snooping around in her car, sent one of their creepy-ass goons to deal with her. I guess they didn't figure she would put up much of a fight. But she tazed that shit bag before he knew what hit him! Ouch!” Francine chuckled and winced at the same time, as George started to suture the wound.

“Hold still,” he singsonged, as he slowly brought the needle through the cut’s other side.

“Yeah, yeah. When I got there he was pretty beat up, but that was mostly because she had a hard time getting him from the car into the basement...”

* * *

Francine talked non-stop while George stitched her head, and then while he brought her ice for the bruises and willow bark for the pain. As she finally finished, he tipped his stool back onto two legs, balancing his back against the wall and wiping his brow.

“You’re lucky you got away with what little you did. But from the sounds of it, Buster isn't too appreciative of your sacrifice.”

Francine looked troubled as he spoke, and she leaned over to grab the ointment from her pack to spread a new layer on the freshly treated cut.

“He’ll come around. He’s with Bitzi, where he belongs...he’ll come around.”

“Well until you’re sure, it goes without saying - don’t bring him here. Or even tell him where you _think_ here is.” He smiled and winked at this last jab. “What’s in the jar?”

“Something my dad whipped up. Here.” She tossed him the jar.

He didn't even bother with the label, opting to open it and smell its contents instead; then he fumbled a notepad out of his apron and started writing while he slowly teased out ingredients.

“Phenol, beeswax, witch hazel...camphor?”

As George puzzled over the jar, Francine stood, went over to the sink and poured herself a glass of water from an ornate clay pitcher. She stared at herself in the small mirror hung above the sink, and grimaced before downing the glass.

"I can’t go back now. Dad would never let me leave."

He set aside the jar and stared back at her.

"You can always stay here, Francine. It can't be much longer bef-"

"Before _what,_ George? You've tried every band on that CB for months! No one is coming! We should have seen that."

She said the last words at a bare whisper. She was thinking of the stories her grandfather used to tell; the signs of dark things to come, how his people had ignored it, how most everyone did until it was too late. _They_ had waited too long already.

George threw his hands into the air as he began to pace around the furniture.

"But what else can we do, Francine? We can't get out, can't call for help. Half of Elwood is captive, and the other is either dead or in hiding!"

She could see he was wracked with anxiety as he wrung his hands, and stepped quickly back and forth.

"At least your parents are safe. You can stay here with me and wait it out, we-"

"We can _fight!_ "

Francine pushed George onto the couch and grabbed her things from the floor.

"I can't stand it when you pace," she huffed, as she threw on her coat and shouldered her bag. She stood over him as he heaved on the couch, and stared up at her in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I’m going to find people who will fight! We got Buster out because they didn’t expect us. If we had five, or even ten more people, we could make a run at them, get more out. Have a fighting chance!"

Looking around the room, she saw George’s rack of tools, and a few sturdy shelves piled with wood and steel; baskets containing goods for every craft and hobby you could think of. She knew he loved them all.

"You can make weapons – I’ll bring you everything you need."

She offered him a hand as he looked at her, bewildered and stunned, and he sat unmoving for several long and awkward moments before grasping it and looking around the room in a daze.

"Come on George," she pleaded softly. "We can’t do nothing, anymore."

"...Ok." He said it slowly as he shook his head. Then he stumbled back to his stool to pick up his notepad, and scrawl out a list.

"You'll do it!?" She squealed, and almost tore the paper from his hands.

"Yes, I’ll do it. But I need as much of this as you can get."

Francine quickly took the list and began to read its contents excitedly under her breath, before he took both her hands and lowered them, arresting her attention with a burning gaze.

"Just don't get hurt."

* * *

It took almost a week of trips to get everything he needed, going early in the morning to the old hardware store, and to all the houses she knew were abandoned. Things like newspaper and sugar were easy; in fact, almost all of the items were things that anyone might have. It was the _amounts_ that were hard to find. Five pounds of cayenne pepper, ten bottles _each_ of bleach and ammonia, packs of birthday balloons and high-powered Super Soakers. She didn't understand the list. But she didn't have to.

Francine hadn't spent this much time outside since before the takeover, and the constant crouching and looking over her shoulder had given her a throbbing pain in her neck that only seemed to worsen with sleep. What was worse was that it seemed to be for nothing; she hadn't seen even one of them since the rescue. But she’d felt them - like they were leaking from the cracks in the pavement, and dripping from faucets left partway on. She felt half crazy every time she did a double-take, only to find a stuffed animal or a rake propped against a tree to be the one casting the shadow she feared.

In all her time around town, she hadn't visited Bitzi once. She had wanted to, but thought it too risky - fearing her mere proximity would be like a beacon of misfortune. Instead she comforted herself by looking into her kitchen window whenever she passed by. Bitzi almost never left her basement, but kept an especially fragile Siberian orchid on her windowsill; as long as it was alive, Francine knew Bitzi was too.

Today she'd scored the mother lode. She had put off going into Brain’s house all week; she knew there would be things George could use, but for some reason she’d felt wrong about it. But she’d pushed those feelings down when she left the hideout this morning. The sky was dark and the clouds were low and threatening - she knew she wouldn't have time for anything else before it rained. So she booked it there, being careful to skirt the main roads and use backyards instead of sidewalks.

The window to the laundry room had been left open, so she crawled inside and headed straight to Allen’s room. She knew exactly where to look. He had told her something once during free period, which had usually been spent playing soccer one-on-one to burn time. He had been so excited about the chemistry set he found at a flea market outside the city.

"One from the 60's or 70's!" He had gushed.

"Back before they had safety guidelines for kids! This thing has almost all the chemicals and components the high school has! Although in smaller amounts."

She knew he had it hidden in the back of his closet, so his parents wouldn't find it - not that they would have looked for it, anyway. They had always trusted him...he _was_ a good kid, she thought with a pang of regret.

When she got to his room she felt sick in the pit of her stomach, but delved to the back of his closet anyway. She soon found what she was looking for, tucked behind a modern science set and a slew of old trophies. The old steel kit was near perfect, and she sighed as she slid it into her backpack.

_Fumph!_

Francine nearly hit the ceiling when a waxed canvas sack fell from a top shelf and smacked down at her feet. Her heart was thumping like crazy as she braced the wall to catch her breath. Several seconds later, and only after looking around one more time in paranoia, she unfolded the top of the sack to reveal a jet black substance with the smell of metal and burnt steak.

"Holy shit," she mouthed, as she hefted what she thought was about a ten pound bag.

 _What was Allen doing with this much gunpowder?_ She pondered as she carefully wrapped it in a few sweaters, and placed it gently into her bag before zipping it gingerly and hefting the now substantial pack.

She would have bounded down the stairs in excitement, had she not turned around to find a man in a dark green jumpsuit standing behind her. He wore a mask that looked like melted candle wax, and held an aluminum bat lax in his left hand.

He seemed to be considering her, looking her up and down, almost too disinterested to make the first move.

For a second, she considered the second story window behind her – then decided instead to pretend to head for it, move back, and lunge forward in a feint. Her plan was to rush past him and down the stairs.

But the man didn't fall for the trap; he instead let her breeze right by him, only to spin around and plant his boot in her back as she reached the landing.

Francine only hit four of the twelve stairs on the way down. The first two were cushioned by her pack - the last two crushed her wrist, and bludgeoned her skull with a sharp _thwack_. With the last stair her vision went white, but she could feel the cold stone floor beneath her shoulder, and hear the sickly gurgle as she puked onto her chest.

For a moment, everything seemed still. The white she saw rang with violin tones, and her body felt as if it where floating through a weightless space. As if there wasn't a man slowly descending the stairs toward her, as if the smell of vomit and blood were far away, and in this moment - the only moment - Francine could finally rest.

The rough hands gently brushing back her hair and then gripping her throat brought her to.

She opened her eyes to meet the man’s – _creature’s? -_ brown ones, staring through her, like she was a stain on the tile causing mild annoyance. Her legs started to kick, and she tried to bring up her hands. But her right arm was trapped beneath him, and as her left hand hit the inside of his thigh, she gurgled. The broken wrist gave a throb of pain so strong she would have vomited again, had his hands not been blocking her airway.

She tried her best to buck and thrash away, but her body felt weak - like only half her mind still remained, with a signal too weak to get through to her aching limbs. She looked down, because meeting his gaze made his winning so much more terrible; he looked as if he could care less. "Is that it?" his eyes seemed to mutter.

As her eyes drifted down, she spotted the gold butt-cap of the chisel in her right pocket. With renewed vigour, she tried to heave oxygen into her lungs before shoving her broken hand under the thing’s crotch, across her body, sending her brain searing with a cacophony of pain. She fingered the end of the handle before teasing it into her palm, and then rammed it up and under the mask with all the force she could muster.

A _sploosh_ of red wax came cascading from the bottom of the mask as she dropped her chisel. The man stumbled over her and thudded against something out of sight, as she gasped and crawled towards the next room. Her vision was pulsing and fish-bowled as she grabbed for the tool and turned around.

The thing had crumpled against the front door and was breathing fast and shallow, blood pooling onto its upturned hands; it looked as if it were shrugging.

Francine struggled up the wall, never taking her eyes off the creature, and then shook her right arm to return the feeling and gripped the chisel tight. She could hear a downpour had started outside, and she was glad for it.

* * *

She hadn't even made it to the oak, when George appeared. The technicoloured woods seem to throb and pitch out of control as she collapsed into his arms, and as she drifted into that delirium, she imagined him carrying her back inside the yellow-golden warmth of the Finnegan.

She woke to the crackle of the CB and the smell of pickled fish. Through a haze, she could see George across the room, working a long shapely board in a vice; taking careful shavings with a plane before eyeing it critically, marking along the edge, and repeating the process on the other side.

She watched for what seemed like hours - she wasn't sure. What she _did_ know was the hunger that tore at her guts, and the dull ache in her head. Slowly, she closed her eyes, and opened them again to clear her vision.

"You're finally awake!"

George was suddenly over her somehow, smelling of maple and glue.

"And it looks like for real, this time." He smiled, and went over to the kitchenette, coming back with a steaming bowl.

"It's not fish, is it?" Francine winced and wrinkled her nose as he set it down beside her.

"No." He chuckled, and sat down across from her.

"It's mushroom and leek."

She sat up and took the bowl in both hands, and was startled when her wrist gave a _clunk_. Looking down, she saw a wooden brace secured with leather straps, and cushioned with wool. Blushing, she looked up at him.

"Thank you, George. It means...a _lot_. I know..." She paused.

"I know you were doing just fine before I got here, and that I caused you a lot of trouble. I just want to say thank you, for everything."

It was George's turn to blush; he wouldn't meet her eyes as he rubbed the thighs of his overalls, and shyly smirked.

"I was stagnant. You've helped _me_ as much as I've helped _you._ "

"What are friends for?" She smiled, and began to slurp her soup.

For a few moments, it was silent and warm. Two friends sat alone, and trouble did not knock at the the door, nor play in their minds. It could have been any afternoon in fall - after school but before dinner, hours wasted on the bliss of burdenless youth.

"Oh! I almost forgot." George suddenly stood and rushed over to his work bench, fumbling a can of pencils before grabbing a sheet of paper and returning to his seat.

"I'd been wondering for a while who you were going to recruit. I figured we couldn't ask at your building, and for the time being Bitzi and Buster are out of the question. Then last nig-"

"Wait, hold on." Francine put a hand to her head - struggling to remember.

"How long was I in and out? I don't really remember..."

George's face dropped from excitement to concern.

"A day," he said first, reluctance in his voice. But when Francine looked up, he faltered.

"More like two. I set your wrist the first day - you threw up a _lot_ , and all I could get you to take was broth. You woke up ten or fifteen times, but you were never _really awake..."_ He got quiet for a long moment.

"You would scream, and ramble nonsense about rotting flesh...and terrible eyes." A cold dread had settled over his face when he looked back to her.

Feeling disturbed, Francine reached across the space between them and put a hand over his.

"I'm sorry, George...I don't remember any of that. Please, what were you saying about last night?"

He seemed to linger for a moment in the place he'd drifted to, before startling back at her touch.

"Right - the Tough Customers. They put out a call. They're being held at some sort of work camp that was set up at Mountain Elementary. They couldn't talk for long - they didn't even think anyone was out here. But they have a plan. They just need help from the outside, if it's going to work."

"Then we should go!" Francine was already looking for her pack as he stood, and shook his head.

"They're supposed to contact me tonight, so we can coordinate. Even if we already knew, it's too late tonight, anyway."

He pointed up, at a metal contraption that dangled above his head. She had never noticed it before. It was small and brass, and had started clicking and whirring in polyrhythms that made Francine think of abrupt and lurching dancers.

"They're already here." He sighed as he wandered back over to his workbench.

"You should try to get some sleep."

But there was no way that was happening. Instead she stayed up perusing his book collection, probing him about the things he had made, and what he thought might happen tomorrow. It was early in the morning when a warbled, punch-drunk voice came suddenly through the radio.

"Geo... _chhhek-cruhg_ Geor...?"

* * *

Both of their packs were heavy with weapons and gear. They had made good time in the early morning fog, and were only a few more blocks from the school. Molly had informed them that they were kept in a portable near the edge of a barbed wire fence, and that they should be at the edge of that fence by 5:30 - half an hour before the guards usually escorted them to their shift.

Hunkered down behind a small house, George unloaded some tightly coiled tubes of brown and wretched smelling newspaper, as well as a few small, capped pipes with short, thick fuses.

"I hope we won't need these ones."

He eyed the bombs with caution, as he placed them on a folded sweatshirt. Then he leaned two short bows and a few arrows fletched with ducktape against the house's foundation.

"I wish I had you backing me up on this," he grumbled, and wrung his hands, already red and sweaty.

"I'm more likely to hit _you_ then anyone else!"

Francine could see his anxiety building in the way he wouldn't stop pitching his head from side to side, or blinking twice the usual amount. She grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Hopefully you won't have to. I'm the fastest runner in town, and if it all goes to plan, they won't even see me coming." She shot him a reassuring smile, and slapped his shoulder.

" _If_ it all goes to plan..." Geogre whispered, with no small note of sarcasm.

"Plus," Francine added as she rearranged the bag of newspapers on her shoulder, and retied her laces, "even if you were the best shot in the _world_ , you'd still only have four arrows." She winked, and then took off towards the fence.

She cackled at her own joke as she ran, passing the portable and continuing down nearly to the other end, about two hundred metres away. She only stopped to light a few papers, which once ablaze released an abundance of thick and acrid smoke. She tossed these over the fence, and started at half-pace back towards their mark.

Once there, she threw the last of her papers, and then reached deep into the bottom of her bag for the bolt cutters. She was halfway done a hole big enough to slip through when she heard a commotion down the fence line. But the smoke was a solid wall of choking black tar - far too thick to see through - and all she really knew was that the Tough Customers were late.

She looked back and saw George, with a badly nocked arrow, looking intense and twitching his head back and forth like a deer. Panic was starting to creep in as she eyed the smoke, searching for figures and finding all too many that weren't really there.

Finally, five people burst through the portable's doors. At first she thought it was a trap, and almost turned to run. But she would recognize Molly's flaming red hair anywhere - even perched on top of a sickly thin face covered in mud and bruises.

She held the wire open as the group passed through, George waving them over violently. And when Binky brought up the rear, she quickly laced a bike cable though the fence wound, and locked it.

They'd reached the back of the house by the time she heard the chain link start to rattle and chime. So grabbed the few papers they had left, and hucked them burning into the street.

"Get those pipes ready," she whispered harshly over her shoulder.

George hastily handed the last of the weapons to the group, then gently collected the pipes and speed-walked to the corner of the house.

He turned around as he struck the match, and nodded at the group to run.

As he caught up with them, they could all hear the slamming of feet to concrete, and half of them turned to see a few men rounding the corner of the house at break-neck speed. A second later, the bombs went off.

_BANG!!!!_

The initial blast was deafening, and and seemed to echo endlessly between the tight suburban housing. For a second Francine and the others slowed, but quickened their pace again when they saw limping figures emerge from the smoke.

They made it almost a mile before slowing again, picking silently up side streets and down alleys to avoid being easy prey. The less direct path home at a slower pace ate away at the day, and it was into the afternoon when George gave a heavy sigh.

"We're close now."

They entered the woods far to the west of where Francine usually did, and she was glad he knew where they were going. But as they neared the Finnegan, he abruptly stopped, and motioned them to crouch beside a tall bramble.

When Francine turned to question him, his eyes were filled with terror.

"They're never here this early," he whispered. And pointed into the woods.

She followed his finger and saw several far away figures, ambling in a group through the trees.

"They're right on _top_ of it," he whisper-shrieked through clenched teeth.

Binky's large hands came to rest on either of his shoulders, grasping them in solidarity.

"You and Sue-Ellen have bows. And we all know how to fight." He winked good naturedly at Francine.

"If we sneak up as close as we can, they won't know what hit 'em."

Francine nodded, as George swallowed a mouthful of bile. Luck seemed to favour them; the winds picked up as they moved, and the rattle and crash of fallen leaves masked the sound of their approach. When they'd come a fair distance, George and Sue-Ellen each nocked an arrow and lined up a shot, while the others drew their clubs and knives and braced for the attack.

But then, without warning, Sue-Ellen's bow snapped in her hands with a loud _thwack,_ and George's arrow flew uselessly to the far left of the group.

The men and women in green jumpsuits turned slowly towards the group, who had frozen at the startling failure of their plan. Knives and hatchets were pulled from pockets or belts, and when one woman slipped a revolver from her boot, Slink panicked and whirled. The rest of the group was startled by his sudden scream.

"Fuck!"

They'd been surrounded. Several more were behind them now, each a blank and melted face of horror. The two groups began to close ranks around the friends, who looked to each other helpless and shocked. There was only once choice now, and they all knew the price would be high.

Just as Binky set loose a battle cry and brandished his club, the head of the nearest creature pulped into the air with the sound of a fire cracker. Her mask came away to reveal a mass of gore, and her limp body slumped into the freshly fallen leaves. The creatures twisted in fear as two more fell just as suddenly in a din of crackling gunfire.

The friends surged forward at the chance. Francine slashed and stabbed at the confused and woody torso of one man, bringing forth a wet and gurgling scream as he attempted to turn away, but was met with a large rock wielded by Slink. George loosed an arrow that found home in another man's thigh, distracting him long enough for Molly to bring down her hammer with a grotesque crack.

Francine turned to yell in excitement at George, when she caught the barrel of a revolver in her eye. She screamed as her hands flew instinctively up to her face. Then felt a fist bury itself so deep in her gut, her spine shuddered, and she fell to one knee. She peered through her fingers at the woman as she leveled the gun, and closed her eyes as she heard the rapport.

She drew a ragged breath. And when she opened them again, she saw a man in silhouette, standing over a crumpled corpse. The dying light stained his outline in red, and the words came shaky and hopeful from his mouth.

"Franky?"


End file.
